Read Online From the Kitchen of Half Truth by Maria Goodin - Free Book Online

doesn’t seem to understand how sick she is. It’s like she’s in complete denial,” I tell Dr. Bloomberg, ready for his mutual indignation. Instead he nods sagely, as if what I have described is completely acceptable.
    â€œDenial’s a great defense mechanism,” he says, “a coping strategy. People find all kinds of ways to deal with the things life throws at them.”
    He glances at my notebook, in which I have drawn a chart dividing my mother’s illness into categories: symptoms, medication, hospital dates.
    â€œSo what do we do about it?” I ask.
    He peers at me over the top of his spectacles, raising his bushy white eyebrows as if they risk hindering his vision.
    â€œMy dear girl, we mustn’t do anything about it. It’s probably the only thing keeping her sane.”
    I stare incredulously at him, watching the halo of light I have projected around him fade away. He can’t be serious, can he? How can someone of such intelligence and reason possibly think it’s okay for my mother to go on deluding herself? He’s wrong. He has to be wrong. But I don’t intend to sit here and waste my time arguing with him.
    â€œThank you for your time, Doctor,” I say brusquely, standing up. My head feels light and my knees are trembling, but I put it down to a lack of air in the room. I hold out my hand to Dr. Bloomberg in a businesslike fashion.
    He stands slowly and reaches across his desk, taking my hand gently between both of his. His eyes are full of sympathy, and I want to scream at him, “Stop it! Stop feeling sorry for me!” I feel naked and exposed before him, as if he can see what a fool I have been, as if he can tell, in spite of all my protestations, that I have been thinking of my mother’s remaining time in terms of years. His hands are warm and heavy around mine, and as I gaze at the white hair on the back of his knuckles I remember that those same hands once held me, turned me over, examined me, and then passed me back into the safety of my mother’s arms. Hot tears spring to my eyes and my throat starts to burn.
    â€œGood-bye,” I say curtly, fumbling to shake his hand as best I can.
    â€œGood-bye, Meg.”
    I gather my bag and walk hastily from his office. But before I close the door, I glance back at him. He is already sitting down at his desk, flicking through the notes on his next patient.
    â€œIt didn’t help me grow, you know,” I tell him, “putting me in the water heater closet.”
    Dr. Bloomberg frowns at me.
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    I freeze, wondering what came over me. What on earth prompted me to say such a thing? Did I seriously hope he would remember, as if his remembering would confirm something for me, make the past real? I open my mouth to speak but find myself caught between an explanation and an apology, between wanting to jog his memory and wanting to take back my ridiculous comment. I shake my head, suddenly feeling very confused.
    â€œNothing,” I say, closing the door behind me and hurrying out onto the street.
    ***
    Walking home from Dr. Bloomberg’s office, I still feel sick and shaky and can only think I must be coming down with something.
    â€œMaybe you should find her another doctor,” Mark is telling me on the phone as I stride along the hot pavement. “A psychiatrist, maybe, someone who can get her to face up to things. After all, there’s all the practical stuff to deal with, Meg. Has she even written a will? What about the house, her finances—”
    â€œActually, Mark,” I interrupt, “do you mind if we talk about something else?”
    My first instinct upon leaving Dr. Bloomberg’s office had been to call Mark, knowing he would share fully in my indignation at being told that my mother’s state of denial must be preserved. In fact, he is even more outraged than me, immediately pointing out the practical consequences of